Flowers & Ghosts
by icor
Summary: A oneshot about Cloud and his declining mental and physical state. Set one year after FFVII, in a familiar Church, themed around a vague CloudAerith pairing.


"The planet doesn't seem as angry any more," he began. He continued, despite the lack of response, "or maybe... maybe I don't feel it as much."

The young man nodded in agreement with himself. As was common routine now he found himself here, peaceful and silent, save a few words, letting the days merge into one. Glancing down at his phone he realised he had been there for no more than two hours, and sighed listlessly.

Truth be told, Cloud Strife had became a very ill man of recent. Sick in body, in mind... in spirit. After the initial mako poisoning his body had collapsed; his body had given in, letting the powerful substance infuse with his senses, sending him into a dizzying haze of unawareness and disarray. Complete shutdown.

Now it came back in waves, and more frequently he found himself hunched over, eyes pricked with flashes of light as his mind violently reeled three-sixties backwards. It was all too much, and as he dug his fingernails into his skull, somehow hoping to cancel out the pain with pain, his body gave in, and he choked on flood of bile at the back of his throat.

"It's okay to die..." This time he spoke so quietly there was no doubt that he was talking to himself. Convincing himself.

_It's okay for you to die... it wasn't okay for_ her_ to die._

Shaking his head he dismissed the thought, turning his attention back to his surroundings. A smile almost crossed his face. Cloud had discovered this place held some sort of intangible comfort for him, and though it was small he relished in it. The long abandoned Church was the only truly tranquil place in the whole of Midgar. Any where else would be full of life, full of pollution; full of the false alacrity of a hopeless city.

No one would come here. The bright and uplifting design of the building seemed to stick out like a sore thumb against the monochrome grey of the landscape, making it a silent taboo. Besides, no one had time for dead religions. No one would come here: only ghosts.

_Only ghosts..._

The flowers still grew here, and Cloud often wondered if they had been blooming forever. Before him, before the Church, before civilisation, before everything. Of course, he realised it was a foolish thought; flowers bloom and die like everything else. They _have_ to, he reminded himself over and over.

However, they weren't as neatly organised anymore. They had become uncared for, and grew more wildly, without reason or a purpose.

_Of course they're like this. Ghosts can't tend to flowers._

Cloud had considered caring for the flowers himself several times. It wasn't at all a difficult process from what he understood: now and then he would have to feed them, pull out the parasitical weeds that cropped up, cut out dead plants, keep them neat... but no. Just, no. Standing up he dusted his knees off, and looked down at his hands. _Too bloody_, he had concluded. Those two hands had taken too much life... _lost_ too much life... for him to be able to sustain it now, the stains deep below the surface.

As if some painful memory was suddenly remembered, he gritted his teeth and forced the words "I'm... sorry..." out.

_Sorry? This again, Cloud? All you can think about is back then..._

He gripped his head, not from mako, but this time from a different pain. Something else; something more consistent, with the always invariable sensation. Infiltration.

After _that_ man 'died' (he had become used to using the term around the general loosely now), like everyone, Cloud had thought all the problems would dissolve into sanctity, but when it came down to it... nothing had changed. He still felt like a hollowed out replica of what Cloud really was and should be, and his mind was too corrupted for him to be a imitation of Zack, and too pure to be a clone of Sephiroth.

While revenge was the only thing filling his mind things made more sense to him. The voice wasn't so common then, and it seemed like a plausible way from him to erase the pain. How wrong he was. After he got his revenge the only things left were emptiness and hurt.

The world was saved from danger, and it was moving steadily without him, yet still he had to idea how he should be... how he should feel.

Aerith.

She had been his only link to what he really was, but now she was nothing more than a fading memory.

"No, not a memory," he smiled, as if talking directly to her. In a way he knew he was doing just that.

_You won't forget, will you?_

Ignoring the voice he turned to leave, walking briskly to the huge double doors. _I've been with the ghosts too long,_ he thought as he left.

Outside the noises of life filled his ears. It was a sudden shock to his senses, but seemed to drown the voice out, and for that he was grateful.

Cloud began to speak again, his voice as quiet as it was sad.

"How is that I'm forced to hear so many voices, yet I'm denied even a single word from you?"


End file.
